


What Happened to John

by azriona



Series: Hearts [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, BAMF John, M/M, Omega John, Omega Verse, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened to John when he followed the clue left behind in Emily’s bedroom.  This story is the companion to Chapter Seven in Dangerous Disadvantages; please make sure you’ve read that chapter first!</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happened to John

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this originally because I was trying to figure out how John got into the cottage, and where he'd be when Sherlock found him again. It was mostly for me, but I like it because it really shows John's BAMFy-ness. I do love a BAMFy John.

The cab let him out on the street. John knew better than to disembark any closer to the house - no point in giving the occupants warning of his approach, although he knew better than to think that they wouldn't expect him. The little china dog was too clever a clue; the only thing in John's favor was that the kidnappers would be expecting Sherlock to be with him, and John was acting alone. 

Some part of him wasn't sure how that made things better, and the rest of him was positive that it was a stupid plan, but mostly, John wasn't thinking very much about the plan at all. Once the cab was gone, he readjusted the pack and checked that his gun was in place, and disappeared into the trees. 

John wasn't used to moving quietly through a wooded area. It was entirely different than moving quietly through the desert, where "quiet" had never exactly been the necessary element anyway. Moving quietly through a toy-laden room while the baby slept, now that was something John understood, and he tried to think of the damp ground as the carpet, and the errant sticks as dolls, piles of leaves as brightly-colored books. It almost helped. The heavy scent of the woods helped, too - every time John breathed in the rich smells of the leaves, the bark, the dirt below his feet, it helped to center him in the here and now. If he could smell the woods, he wasn't too far gone yet, when he wouldn't be able to catch any scent but that of Sherlock. The cold air on his forehead was even better, and John unzipped his coat to feel it on his throat. But even with the cold, the sweat on his brow began to accumulate, the heavy molten heat in his gut spreading out into his limbs. 

Trying to push the feelings back into a tight bundle wasn't helping. The heat was coming, whether John wanted it or not. He wasn't sure what he wanted, except to reach the house, unseen, and find whoever waited inside. 

Ten minutes of walking, and finally a break in the trees. John crouched low, watched the shadows against the thinly-veiled windows, the light pouring from the rooms. A sitting room to the right of the door, a foyer leading to the kitchen, and a hallway to the left, leading to a bedroom and a bath. The bedroom was dark; the sitting room was brightly lit, but John noticed the faint flicker of light - there'd been a fireplace, and yes, there was the tell-tale smoke rising from the chimney. 

It would have been very cosy in that room. John wished he could remember if there'd been a basement or cellar. 

Slowly, John worked his way around the perimeter of the house. The night was quiet, except for the faint sounds of traffic in the distance, the sound of John's not-quite-silent feet treading on the ground, the small shifts and shuffles of leaves and branches giving way, and other small mammals as they went about their nightly business. A trickle of sweat down the side of John's face; he wiped it away and kept going, until he was around the back of the house, where the lights were dimmed. 

There was no cover; it would have to be an exposed trip to the house. At a run, or a crawl. John went to the ground, and began to crawl. 

The lights in the house didn't shift. John reached the house, and sat against the exposed brick, breathing heavily. He gripped his knees and squeezed, trying to regain control of his body, and after a moment, his breathing eased as his body relaxed. 

John reached into his pocket and pulled out the small hand mirror. He lifted the mirror to the window above his head, angling it slightly, so that he could use it to see inside. The room was dim, but he could just see through the sheer curtains well enough to tell that it was empty. 

But perhaps not for long. That was the tricky part; nothing ever stayed stagnant. John got to his feet, and was on the window like a flash, and to his surprise and suspicion, the window opened easily. 

It should have warned him. It _did_ warn him, every cell in John's body shrieked a warning of danger, that he'd come this far, unspotted, and now was granted easy access? A smart man would have paused, perhaps retreated and returned with backup. John was a smart man, even next to Sherlock. 

The scent overpowered the smart man. Thin and sweet and fresh like fruit salad, and John gripped the windowsill and ignored the voice in his head telling him it was a trap. He climbed through the window and fell to the floor and followed the smell to the bed, taking up the pillow and pressing it to his face to breathe it in. 

_Emily._

John shuddered once, and then lowered the pillow. 

Emily had been here, but the room was empty now. John tried to think like Sherlock, to see the bits and pieces that would tell him what had happened. The pillow - Emily had been sleeping here. Perhaps they'd let her sleep off the chloroform after taking her. Jane, too - both pillows looked used. No blood that he could see on the sheets, so they'd been unharmed, at least while they'd been here. The room was chilled, so it was unlikely they'd been here very recently, but the light was on. Either someone didn't care to turn lights off, or they intended to return. 

The room itself was plain; the bed, a table, a lamp. A pile of books on the table - John couldn't read the titles but could tell that most of them were children's books, some of which Emily even owned. A few titles for older readers - perhaps for Jane. Clearly they'd been placed there to help the girls pass the time. A dollhouse in the corner, elaborately decorated and filled with small bits of furniture. It was the dollhouse that caught John's attention most; Emily had seen one at the Museum of Childhood only one month earlier, and had been angling for one of her own ever since. He'd almost considered giving her one for her birthday, but there was little enough space in 221B as it was. Emily had clearly been playing with this one, rearranging furniture if the bits and pieces lying outside of the house were any indication. 

John rose from the bed and gave the house a closer look. It was truly an amazing dollhouse. Fixed with electric lights, soft carpeting, intricately designed wall-paper. There was a garage with a car, a little garden with tiny carrot-tops peeking through. Inside, the kitchen was as well-appointed as any John had ever seen, and the table was set for breakfast, with two small dolls, a little girl and a slightly older girl, sitting as if ready to eat. 

Upstairs, in a bedroom, were two men, lying in a bed, snuggled close together. John reached out to touch them - dark hair, blond hair, and pulled his hand back as if scalded. 

John got to his feet and moved quietly to the door. It was closed, and when he pressed his ear against the wood, he could hear nothing from the other side. 

John took a breath. Stay, wait for Emily and Jane to return - or go, and try to find them. The house had people in it. John didn't know who. He couldn't even be sure that Jane and Emily were still _in_ the house. 

And then he heard the sound, just a small one. It wasn't Emily, but it was still familiar, and John tensed at the cry of pain and surprise. 

Jane. 

The kidnappers had gone to a great deal of trouble to take Jane as well as Emily. They wouldn't have separated them. Where Jane was, Emily had to be. 

John rested his hand on the doorknob and carefully turned it, and once the door was open, he slipped into the hall. 

The light from the sitting room spilled into the hallway, and the low sound of murmuring voices was just audible. John stayed close to the wall, and began to move toward them. 

“…Enough of photographs, I think. Time for a bedtime story. It’s rather a _long_ book, I’m afraid, but I think we can read a chapter before it’s time for bed, don’t you think so?” A woman, her voice clipped and brisk. Older, John thought, though he couldn’t quite say why. Something about the deepness of the tone, the way her words were polished and precise. It reminded him of Aurora Holmes, the sympathetic reassurance that belied the sharp edge under the concern. John held himself very still. 

_“We ran down street after street, twisting and turning in an impossible pattern. I thought I knew London before – but not really. I knew London in the sense that I’d walked through it once or twice, had a decent sense of direction, could recognize Belgravia from Bethnal Green. But Sherlock – it wasn’t that he had memorized the London A-Z. It’s that he **knew** London, knew the streets intimately and lovingly, knew exactly which alley had the fire escape we could climb to reach the rooftops. Knew where rooftops leaned against each other, so close we could leap the space in between. He knew London like a lover. In some ways, I think to Sherlock, London was exactly that.” _

It took a moment, but John recognized it. Not the blog entry at all, but the book, the one he’d written in the dark days before he knew he was pregnant, after Sherlock’s fall, alone and afraid and angry at the world. The one he’d written to remind himself that Sherlock wasn’t the man he professed to be at the end; to remind himself his love had been justified. 

The one he’d self-published, when Emily was barely a year old, and earned just enough to pay the rent and the electricity without having to go to Mycroft for help. 

_“It wasn’t really that Sherlock was arrogant, or that he didn’t care about others. I think he never genuinely understood that it's normal to care. It's normal to worry about what other people think. Like a child, he just didn’t understand the rules of society. I used to think this is what made him good at figuring others out. And perhaps it did. But it also meant that he never really thought any of us could do something clever, and when we did – well, he was like a kid on Christmas morning, then. It made you want to keep on trying, to be clever, to make him happy and proud like that, every day.”_

“Papa,” said the familiar voice, and John closed his eyes and reached for his gun. 

“Yes, very good. This story is about your father. Something of a love story, of course, which can be rather dull, but there’s quite a lovely bit in here about how your daddy comes to your father’s rescue. Quite thrilling.” 

“The lady who liked pink too much,” said Emily. 

“Ah, you know this story?” 

“Papa tells it to me.” 

“Yes, he would. I dare say he doesn’t tell it quite right, of course, but then, neither does Mr Doyle here. You see, the real story has absolutely nothing to do with the lady in pink or the cab driver. It has to do with the man who supplied the pills.” 

“The bad man,” said Emily. 

“Emily,” said the woman, admonishing. “What did we discuss?” 

There was a quiet pause. “That…he’s not bad. Not really.” 

“Exactly. And what did I say would happen if you called him bad again?” 

“No, please no, please, don’t, I’m sorry I’m sorry it was a mistake I won’t—” 

There was a crack and a shriek – but not from Emily. 

_Jane._

Emily’s pleading and Jane’s sharp cry of pain calmed, and John held himself steady, creeping ever closer to the living room, staying hard against the wall. He could hear Jane try to muffle her own whimpers of pain; he could hear Emily try to pull in her own sobs. 

“Now that we’ve learnt our lesson, let’s continue reading, shall we?” said the woman, brisk and calm once again. “Oh, and Dr Watson? Do stop skulking in the hall and come join us, you’ll be far more comfortable.” 

John froze, and felt the thin tip of a knife at the back of his skull, in the soft spot at the top of his neck. 

"Do hurry, the tea is getting cold," said the woman, and John slowly moved into the light, the knife and its handler moving with him. 

He could see the sitting room clearly now; it looked much the same as it had when he'd sat there and eaten sandwiches with Sebastian Moran, half a year before. Only now the fire in the grate was burning steadily, and there was a thick smell of dust and soot in the air. Jane was crouched near the fireplace, one arm held stiffly as her left hand wrapped around her right wrist. She stared at John with pain, shock, and abject apology. 

“Dr Watson,” she started, but John held up his hand, not wanting to shake his head. 

“It’s all right,” he said, and took a breath. The room smelled of sage and roses, and he could smell the faintest bit of Emily’s fruit salad scent. 

Emily. He looked over to the armchair near the window, and saw her, held fast by a woman wearing a bespoke blue suit and cream-colored blouse. Her wrists were adorned with jewelry, and her hair was neatly styled. Emily stared at her father, eyes wide and frightened, and that she didn’t move a muscle to join him scared John more than anything else he’d heard or seen so far. 

“Emily, are you all right?” he asked, eyes on the woman holding the girl fast. 

“Daddy,” whispered Emily, and stopped, frightened. 

“Go on, dear,” said the woman. “It’s polite to answer direct questions when posed by adults.” 

“I’m okay,” said the little girl, her voice tiny. 

“There,” said the woman triumphantly. “Now, Dr Watson, as your worries are surely laid to rest, please do sit down and have some tea. Or would you prefer a glass of water? I dare say you’re not feeling quite yourself today, are you?” 

John didn’t move; the point of the knife on the back of his neck twisted, just a tiny bit, scraping the first layer of skin. 

“Who are you?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even. “Where’s Moran?” 

“Dead,” said the woman. “Rather a shame, but then, the good ones always are. I must say, I’m quite surprised that you came alone. I didn’t expect that your alpha would let you leave the flat without him.” 

“You thought wrong. I don’t live under Sherlock’s thumb.” 

“Of course not, but in your condition—” 

“There is nothing about my condition,” said John quickly. Too quickly; the woman gave a small nod, and the knife twisted again; another layer of skin scraped raw. John winced, and while his eyes closed briefly, he heard the gentle _thwap_. 

By the time he opened his eyes, it was done; Emily was on her feet and racing across the room, hair flying behind her. John acted before he thought; his elbow went straight back into the soft stomach of the man standing behind him with the knife, while he ducked forward to dodge the knife itself. The man doubled over, but didn’t let go of the knife, and John kicked out behind him, sweeping the man’s legs out, and fell with him, ending with his knee on the man’s wrist. He wrenched the knife from the man’s grasp and slid it across the floor to Jane, just in time to turn and wrap his arms around his daughter, who buried her face into his neck, the tears finally beginning to fall. 

"Oh, good _show_ ,” said the woman on the other side of the room, rubbing her leg where Emily had kicked it and glaring at the pair of them. “I quite like you, John Watson, though perhaps your daughter could learn her manners a bit better. I suppose the nanny is expendable now." 

John's gun was in his hand before she'd even finished, aimed squarely at the woman. Emily was a warm weight against his chest. The woman, however, merely raised her eyebrow. 

”I should kill the man who didn't disarm you, but why make your job easier?" 

The woman snapped her fingers, and John felt the cold metal ring of a gun at the back of his neck. 

"Such a shame to kill each other now," sighed the woman. "We haven't even had a cup of tea or a chat. I was so looking forward to the chat. And the tea. I quite like tea. Jane, be a good child and pour it out for us, won't you?" 

"Piss off," snapped Jane. 

“I’ll make you a deal, Dr Watson,” said the woman smoothly. “Lower the gun, and I won’t kill your nanny.” 

John lowered the gun, letting the tip rest on the floor, but kept it cocked. Emily shook where she was nestled against him; he could feel her soft breath against his skin, breathing him in, and she squirmed as if trying to scramble closer. 

“Daddy,” she whispered, distressed, and he lowered his nose and mouth to her hair, to give her a reassuring kiss. Her hair smelled…. 

Faint. Almost like nothing at all. John took a breath. If he couldn’t smell Emily anymore…. 

“It’s all right,” said John quietly. “We’re all right.” 

“Dr Watson,” said the woman. “Tea.” 

“I want to look at Jane’s wrist.” 

The woman waved some sort of approval, clearly not interested, and John stood; it was a near thing, trying to hold onto Emily, and not falling over. She tightened her grip around his shoulders, and John shifted her in his arms. It wasn’t easy, sitting on the armchair, but eventually he managed to slide Emily to his side, nestled partly behind him, where she could hide behind his back. 

Jane scooted to the chair, and John eased the pack off his back. John examined the wrist quickly, touching the skin and gently prodding it. Jane winced, but made no sound. 

“Not broken,” he said finally. “What happened?” 

“Twisted,” said Jane. 

John saw the marks on her skin, and nodded, biting his lip. He unzipped the pack and pulled out the paracetamol and the compression bandage. He knocked three of the pills out into his hand and put them in Jane’s good hand. “Take all of them, it’ll help,” he told her. “I’m going to wrap it up for now, we’ll want to X-ray it later to be sure there aren’t any hairline fractures.” 

Jane nodded, and held steady as John fixed the bandage on her wrist. Emily had gone still behind him; her breathing steady. 

“Have you had the tea yet?” 

Jane nodded again. “It’s all right.” 

“I have no intention of poisoning you,” said the woman, somewhat testy and impatient. “It would hardly serve my purpose. If the child is asleep, the nanny can take her back to the bedroom, I’m sure they’ll be more comfortable. The window has of course been fixed, they’ll find it quite secure now.” 

“Emily stays here,” said John firmly. 

The woman made a half shrug with her shoulders. “There’s really no point in hurting any of you, but as you will.” She sat forward on the chair and reached for the teapot. “Now, Dr Watson, do you take milk and sugar?” 

John didn’t answer. He tightened his fingers on the gun and watched as the woman poured the dark brown, nearly black tea into the delicate cups. Three cups poured, one for Jane as well, he supposed. 

Four cups on the table, John noticed, and stared at the empty cup. 

“Really quite brave of you,” said the woman. “Coming here without Sherlock. Or perhaps bravery is just another word for reckless. I wouldn’t bother trying to pretend that he’s outside providing cover, as I know perfectly well he is not. Still. I suppose you’re about to tell me that he at least knows where you are? Ah. No to that one as well. Reckless indeed, Dr Watson. How many times has your recklessness resulted in your being abducted? This would make…hmm, three times, would it not?” 

The woman placed the cup of tea in front of John; he didn’t touch it. 

“Oh, do stop being dull, and drink,” said the woman. 

“You didn’t answer my question. Who are you?” 

“Introductions,” sighed the woman. “So terribly tedious. The mother of an old friend. Well, I say friend. I think my son quite admired you. Perhaps even envied you. After all, you captured the one thing he could never properly have. Not Sherlock Holmes’s heart, of course, the man doesn’t have a proper one. But his _attention_.” 

The woman sipped her tea, eyes on John, waiting. 

“Your son…” John frowned, trying to think. The woman wasn’t old enough to be Sebastian Moran’s mother…but she knew of his death. The only other possible explanation… 

“Mrs Moriarty,” he said finally. 

“Not quite, but that title will do nicely,” said Mrs Moriarty. “Quite pleased to make your acquaintance. Drink up.” 

John closed his eyes briefly, took a breath, and then opened them again. Mrs Moriarty hadn’t moved. 

“Your son had Sherlock’s attention. He’s had it for the last four years, almost exclusively.” 

“No, my son’s _network_ , which was not properly his, had Sherlock’s attention. When he was alive, my son had nothing of Sherlock’s,” said Mrs Moriarty crisply. “All my son wanted to do was play a few paltry games—” 

“A few _lives_ ,” John interrupted. 

“Six billion people on the planet, one or two lives are surely not worth so very much.” 

“They are to the people who live them.” 

“Oh, goodness, if we’re going to argue about a few people who are already dead, you might as well shoot me and be done with it,” said Mrs Moriarty irritably. “This is why I never attend the cinema. There is always too much discussion when the two antagonists meet. James Bond never directly assassinates his opponent, have you noticed? I suppose you won’t shoot me, either. It’s why you are still holding your gun, when by rights, I should have taken it from you long ago.” 

John’s fingers on the gun flexed. “I’ve killed before.” 

“I am aware of it. You’re quite good at it, as well. You would have made a fine assassin, had I found you before Sherlock Holmes. You simply chose to walk through the wrong park that day.” 

There was a surge of warmth in his stomach, and John swallowed hard and tried not to shake with the rush of heat. “Your network. Not Moriarty’s…” 

“Once was blind, but now you see,” said Mrs Moriarty softly. “Biscuit? The chocolate ones are quite nice.” 

“I would never have worked for you.” 

“Of course you would have,” said Mrs Moriarty. “You were broken, lost, and poor. I would have offered you a chance of redemption. With a good salary and a sense of purpose. Certainly Sherlock Holmes didn’t offer you the salary.” 

“Redemption by way of criminal activity?” 

“Redemption comes in all forms, Dr Watson. And I am far from a criminal. I simply fix what the world has broken. That’s the problem with the world today – there are so many people whose lives have gone quite haywire, and wish to start fresh. Very difficult to do today, what with fingerprinting and passports and bank accounts and every little aspect of one’s life being monitored by those in power. You’ve read _1984_ , of course. Don’t you see the parallels in modern life? A hundred years ago, it was quite easy to fake your death and simply slip away, board a boat and begin anew. Not quite so easy today. Of course, you may have another opinion on the matter. I dare say Sherlock found it easy enough.” 

John tried to control the shaking. “Of all the things Sherlock found while he was dead, I’m fairly certain that _easy_ wasn’t one of them.” 

“No? Perhaps not. But he spoke to you, just before, didn’t he? I haven’t heard, though I’ve of course read the transcript. He’s quite good at the tortured soul act, isn’t he?” 

“It wasn’t an act.” 

“Quite the cold man, to jump and make you watch. He could have caused you to miscarry on the spot. Perhaps that was his intention.” 

The heat was surging, but John couldn’t tell if it was anger or biology. His entire body felt as though it was on fire now; his collar felt damp, and he actually thought he could _feel_ the liquid beginning to pool inside of him. 

_Not now, please, not now!_

“Sherlock didn’t know.” 

Mrs Moriarty raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?” 

“He didn’t know about Emily until the day he returned five months ago.” 

Mrs Moriarty set down her teacup, and reached for the folder on the table. She flipped it open, looked for a long moment at the photograph, and then turned it, pushing it to John. 

Regent’s Park, the outskirts. Autumn, based on the coats people wore as they walked along the path, and John saw himself immediately in the foreground. He recognized the coat, the quietly sad look on his face, but mostly, he recognized the way his hands rested on the just-emerged baby bump. September, or October, then – he’d started taking walks nearly every day, when the weather allowed, to clear his head and try to remain reasonably in shape. He’d walk for an hour, never quite remembering where he went, not paying attention to anything except his memories of Sherlock. 

“I don’t—” began John, but Mrs Moriarty interrupted. 

“Keep looking.” 

John did. And then he saw it, in the background, a familiar silhouette, the lines of the coat, the shock of the curls, the hands in the pockets, standing amongst the trees, eyes focused on the pregnant man walking along the path. 

Sherlock. 

John’s breath caught, and the world began to spin. 

“Rather difficult to believe that he didn’t know,” said Mrs Moriarty innocently. “You were nearly two months along – but then, first pregnancies are so hard to tell in male omegas, aren’t they? There’s always the story of the boy giving birth in the school lavatory. I suppose if Sherlock didn’t know when he jumped, he certainly knew some months later.” 

John couldn’t think. He stared at the photograph, the rush of hot blood in his ears, the creep of the fire in his stomach spreading across his skin. He pushed his heels into the floor, trying to keep from slipping off the chair. He felt like he was falling already, wind rushing by his ears. 

_Is this what falling felt like, Sherlock? Did you know when you jumped? Or did you find out when you saw me in the park that day?_

“What’s past is past, of course. And you’ve forgiven him his trespasses now, no matter what trespasses were done unto you. Such a lovely couple you made, really.” 

“It’s a lie,” said John, staring at the photograph. 

“Of course it is, darling,” said Mrs Moriarty. “Not the photograph, that’s quite real. Merely everything else. Including Sherlock Holmes’s heart. Perhaps, in the end, his attention really did belong to my son. After all, he certainly spurned you and the child in favor of chasing down the remnants of James’s memory. That’s quite telling, I think.” 

Mrs Moriarty took another sip of the tea. “Hmm. Gone cold. Is that too heavy a metaphor, do you think?” 

“Piss off,” said John quietly. 

Mrs Moriarty smiled over the tea. “Ah. Then you believe me.” 

“No.” 

“Yes. You do,” she said softly, and John’s eyes closed as his heart began to break and burn. 

* 

He didn’t remember much. Mrs Moriarty kept talking, and then Emily began to whimper from the damp heat where she was wedged between his back and the chair. Eventually Mrs Moriarty tired of the one-sided conversation and somehow, they were moved back to the bedroom, where John laid Emily on the bed, and sat down next to her, shaking, sweating, and trying desperately to hold onto something to keep him in the moment. 

The heat was overwhelming. Every touch was painful, because none of them were Sherlock’s. Emily was cold under his fingers, but he saw her chest rise and fall and knew it was only his own perception that made him think so. 

Mostly, he just tried to stay afloat, keep his breathing even, and not think about anything. 

Jane crouched by the dollhouse, shaking. 

“Dr Watson—” 

John couldn’t look at her. She’d heard everything – Christ, she’d probably seen the photograph. 

“It’s a heat, isn’t it?” asked Jane, miserable. “She said – before you got here, she said you’d be detained. Because you and Mr Holmes would be busy.” 

John glanced at the dollhouse, the figures representing himself and Sherlock in the bed, and closed his eyes. They hadn’t talked to Emily about heats or frenzies or even how babies were made just yet, and John hadn’t realized his heart could sink any further. 

“Busy” was one thing. Emily might have interpreted busy as working, or cooking, or anything that didn’t involve a heat. But in bed, together… 

“What did she tell Emily?” 

“Not much, nothing really. She said you needed time together, without her, so you’d arranged for a fun little field trip. That’s how she put it, and I thought – I thought I should play along, try to keep Emily from being scared. I don’t think she believed either of us.” 

“No,” said John quietly. “She’s clever.” 

“I don’t think she really wanted to explain it,” said Jane. “I think mostly she just wanted Emily to be quiet and listen to her stories, or to play with the doll’s house.” 

John frowned. “She didn’t – talk about heats?” 

“I can tell. And you haven’t—” Jane bit her lip, and tried again. “Sorry, sorry. My sister – she’s an omega. I know the signs. I…” 

“It’s all right,” said John, and he slid to the ground next to the bed, and let his head sink onto his knees. “There’s nothing you can do.” 

Jane shifted uneasily. “What she said – about Mr Holmes—” 

“No,” said John, weary. “Just…not now, Jane.” 

“Sorry,” whispered Jane again, and he heard her move across the room, and climb on the bed next to Emily, still sleeping. 

John closed his eyes, and tried to breathe. He couldn’t smell anything anymore. He couldn’t feel anything, other than the rasp of the clothes on his skin, the hot blood licking from the inside. 

Impossible to sleep like this, but somehow, he did, because when he woke up, he was still hot, but when he opened his eyes, he saw the smoke and the flames dancing in the hall, and Jane’s eyes wide and frightened. 

“Dr Watson. _Doctor Watson_! Wake up, please wake up – the house is on fire and the window’s nailed shut.” 

And despite the heat burning in his gut, John Watson’s blood ran cold. 

_I’ll burn the heart out of you._

“Is Emily awake?” 

“She won’t wake up. I tried shaking her – she’s breathing, but she keeps coughing – the smoke.” 

John struggled to his feet, and leaned over the bed to his daughter. Emily’s breaths were shallow, but her lips were still pink. She coughed with every exhale, but she was still alive. John kissed her cheek, and grabbed the blanket at the end of the bed. “Wrap her up.” 

Jane struggled to wrap Emily, while John went to the window. But it was the old-fashioned, individual paned style – no chance any of them would fit through the small rectangles, even if he broke the glass. He went back to the door leading to the hall; it was open, and he could see the flames licking at the carpet and the drywall. The air was hot and dry, and John felt the sweat on his forehead evaporate. 

“Christ,” he muttered. He shut the door on the flames, and turned back to the bedroom. He scanned it, and saw the door on the other side. 

“Lavatory,” he said, and pushed Jane, holding Emily, into it, shutting the door again. 

The room was stifling, with only one narrow window. John cranked it open for the fresh air, gulping it down like candy. He turned and pulled down the towels from the racks. 

“Get them wet, wrap them around Emily,” he told Jane, who nodded, numb from fear or shock or pain, he couldn’t tell and didn’t care. 

And then he heard the shouting. 

“John. JOHN.” 

Part of him didn’t want to answer. Part of him wanted to burrow into the tub with Jane and Emily and cover his head and scream in fury. Part of him kept replaying Mrs Moriarty’s words. _He spurned you and the child…my son had his attention in the end….certainly he knew some months later…_

“SHERLOCK!” shouted John, and he forgot everything he’d learned about fire safety, and opened the door, raced through the bedroom, and nearly fell into the flames in the hall as he fell into Sherlock’s arms on the other side of the door.


End file.
